


Biting Cold

by hootyhoobuckaroo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gun Violence, Holidays, Identity Reveal, Meet-Cute, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Schmoop, Secret Identity, Sort Of, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Trust Issues, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-13 01:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16883352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hootyhoobuckaroo/pseuds/hootyhoobuckaroo
Summary: SUMMARY: (Originally inspired by that one prompt where Person A is a vampire, and Person B is decked out in silver jewelry, keeping Person A from coming closer. But with an angsty holiday twist)Bucky’s secrets come back to bite him in the ass, when it turns out people are being bitten. By vampires. How will this affect the relationship he’s worked so hard to keep?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys like this ! I know it's a little long, so buckle up 'cause we're here for some angst (then fluff don't worry !!!)  
> Make sure to read the warnings because this fic is a little dark at first! <3 Hope you enjoy!
> 
> UPDATE: AS OF DECEMBER 17, this work was cut into three parts for the sake of re-editing and clarity! It was once a oneshot haha, but I wanted more closure so I made it longer.

Nothing made you feel safer than being with Bucky – dimly lit streets with flickering lights didn’t seem as awful when you could tug on his sleeve and whisper up at him that you’d feel a whole lot better with his arm around you. He’d of course rib you a little, but his broad hand would already be firmly anchored by your hip, the warmth of his body seeping through your jacket.

You didn’t have to cross the street if you were walking back from work and saw a man coming your way, because no matter when your day was over, Bucky would be propped up by the building’s exit, waiting for you to get out for the night.

You remembered the first time he’d done that, you’d been dating for five months. Your practical yet cute work shoes slid a bit on the rain-slicked pavement when you rushed out the door and your eyes met his. A strong gloved hand now wrapped firmly around your upper arm was the only reason you didn’t break your nose on the New York sidewalk.

“Hey,” he huffed, a little cloud of breath hanging in the crisp fall air.

“Bucky,” you breathed back, one corner of your mouth tugging upwards. You heart was still racing from your almost-fall a few seconds ago, but maybe it was the way Bucky was looking at you. His nose was pink over the edge of his grey scarf, but the cold weather hardly seemed to dampen his mood by the way he grinned crookedly at you.

He tugged you towards him, out of the flow of pedestrians.

You could hardly be bothered to notice the people around you.

“I brought you that spiced cider you like,” he said, gingerly lifting the steaming tray of drinks for you to see. “Y’know, the one you told me about, from the cart just outside the laundromat not five minutes from here.” He hooked a thumb behind him, while he talked, and turned to nod with his head, like you wouldn’t know what he was talking about. His head whipped around to face you, fast enough that stray hair covered his eyes.

“It’s still hot,” he encouraged, shuffling a little closer with the tray. There was barely concealed pride and hope in his voice, and for some reason you couldn’t brush away the image of a dog running back to its owner with a stick.

You shook your head, letting him see your disbelieved smile. “Bucky, I-” you faltered, reaching for a cup.  
“You didn’t have to do all this for me.” He took the second cup and gently bumped it against yours. 

“Cheers,” he whispered.

You both took a sip, Bucky more of a glug than anything. You couldn’t help but laugh at the way he exhaled after pouring the scalding liquid down his throat.

“That’s the stuff, hey?” He took another sip, smaller this time, and nodded his head, towards the direction of your apartment. “I wanted to walk you back.”

“Bucky,” you protested. “It’s late. You really didn’t have to.”

He bumped shoulders with you, stealing a glance at the way you cupped the drink to your chest. “Of course I don’t _gotta_. But who am I to let a gorgeous … dimepiece like you walk home all alone.” He winked roguishly at you. He took another sip, and let his hand snake around your waist.

You leaned into his side, warm from the cider, warm from Bucky, warm from the honeyed sweetness in your heart when you looked up at him.  
“But seriously, I don’t want you to ever feel unsafe walking home by yourself.” He fixed you with a hard look, and you remembered a series of texts from two nights ago, where some guy had followed you for three blocks.

_You’d taken a detour from the route home and ducked into a local liquor store, texting Bucky with shaking, numb hands. Luckily, he was only five minutes away, just wrapping up with some clients. Bucky worked private security, he was intimidating, you knew this, but nothing felt better than seeing him shoulder his way through the people in line for checkout, headed straight towards you. You were watching from the crack in the door, having hidden in the dingy bathroom. Just as a safety precaution, you turned off the light, hoping the man following you wouldn’t think to check the dark bathroom. He didn’t, but he lingered in the store, pacing up and down the aisles, You could just see the top of his head over a magazine stand. Bucky’d rapped on the door, and carefully led you out by your trembling hand._

__

__

“Hey,” he breathed tucking you against him. He was wearing a black bomber jacket, the one made of crinkly material that read “SECURITY” in big white letters on the back. He’d insisted on walking you home that night, fixing the man with a hard look as he slunk out of the store. Placing a warm, reassuring hand on your shoulder, he ducked out after the man, despite your pleas to stay put. He returned not a minute of two later with his hands stuck in his pockets. He shot you a boyish grin, hair flopping over his eyes.

“What did you do?” you said, eyes narrowing. 

_He waved a hand. “Ya always gotta assume I did something bad, huh? I just let him know that CCTV camera footage is always available to the local law enforcement.” He pointed to the cameras mounted to the ceiling. “Just a friendly reminder, y’know. Should someone ever report him.”_

That night, it made you feel safe, made you feel warm, made you feel … loved. And so you let him buy you cider, walk you home, press chaste goodnight kisses to your cheek, giving him a hard time when his cold nose pressed against your face. One night, it was particularly gusty, and you invited him in. “Are you sure?” he said, already rewinding his scarf around his neck. You tossed your scarf onto the coat rack, leaning against the door. “Yes, Bucky, I’m very sure. Please come in.” And so he did, shyly toeing off his boots, and hanging up his navy wool peacoat next to yours. The sight made you smile. And that was the first time you’d invited Bucky in, after dating for eight months. It was a quiet kind of happy, and his presence was familiar in your home. 

The next winter, he was at that point, a constant feature in your life. You’d spent winter, spring, summer, and autumn falling in love with Bucky Barnes. It didn’t feel like home unless he’d walked you back from work, your shoulders bumping tiredly at the end of every night. It didn’t feel like home if, on every Thursday night, he’d open the door for you, shoulder your bag, and your favorite takeout would already be sitting on the counter. It didn’t feel like home if he wasn’t leaning against you on Saturday nights while you both worked side by side, typing away on your respective assignments. It especially didn’t feel like home, if he wasn’t there to brush a soft kiss to your temple, absentmindedly ask if you wanted anything from the coffeeshop at the corner of the block, and he’d run and get you a drink even in just his sweats and a raggedy old tee. So when Bucky’s lease ran out, he moved in with you. And when you were promoted, to an office thirty minutes deeper into the city, you looked for a place together. 

An old brownstone, third floor at the very corner, became your new home with Bucky. You’d gone and painted the walls that August, slowly moved furniture in during September, and by late October, every bit of your life from the old apartment by the coffeeshop, well it was in the brownstone that you’d picked with Bucky. You loved it, even though the windows rattled during storms, and the gas stove sometimes made frightening noises, because Bucky made it worth it. And at the first mention, he fixed the windows best he could, and when the stove hissed at you, he’d prod at the unit with a pair of tongs until she was up and running like a champ.

One thing you hated however, was the happenings around the brownstone. You’d first heard it from Laura, the owner of the laundromat directly across the street. She helped you start up the machine, and the small talk flowed easily.

“Bad area,” she’d hummed. “They keep finding the scenes of vamp attacks around here, y’know? It’s what, November 10th? Three fuckin’ people this month have reported a vamp sniffing around here, once on _this street_.” It made all the hairs stand up on your arms, and you shrugged on your coat. Vampires were city folk, you knew that. They were predators, you knew that too. But knowing they were that close, knowing that someone was found in the snow outside the laundromat still bleeding freely from their neck, it chilled you down to the bone. 

Later that night, Bucky dropped into the bed, later than you, clearly exhausted. You could see in the line of his shoulders that he was stressed, that something had crawled under his skin. You put a hand on his shoulder, used to the way he ran cold. He twined his legs with yours, bruised purple eyelids finally closing. Even though the both of you were drifting off to sleep, he mumbled to you, nose in your hair. He asked how work was, told you the laundry machine was being delivered on the twentieth that month.

“I went to the laundromat today,” you whispered, mostly into the hollow of his throat. He pulled you just the slightest bit closer, pressing a tired kiss into your hair. “Mm, thank you,” he hummed. “Was worried I’d have to do tha’ before work tomorrow.” You nodded. “The lady who owned it was showing me the local headlines. Apparently …” you cleared your throat. “She said that apparently there’s been a lot of vampire sightings around here. That someone was found almost bled dry outside the laundromat last week.” He straightened, propping himself up on his forearms.

“That’s not right,” he breathed. “Well,” you said, “course it’s not right, but I wouldn’t expect vampires to have a moral code or-”

He stiffened. “No - that’s not _right_. Vampires don’t live around here, and even if they do it’s not like they’re here to hurt anyone.” He sank back into his pillow, raking a hand through his hair. It was long, brushing past his shoulders now. As much as he griped about needing a haircut, you found it sweet the way his long hair kept his face a little warmer during the winter, that and the scruff he’d been growing out. 

“The victim was found bleeding out from his throat, Buck,” you said gently. “I know that, somewhere, someplace, there’re sane vampires out there, but we can’t trust them.”

He breathed out. “S’pose you’re right.” He held you even tighter. 

Two weeks, two weeks of making Bucky walk you to work when the sun had barely come up yet, and then back when the dark of night made you too jumpy to think straight. Two weeks had passed since you’d visited the laundromat, since you started wearing a silver bracelet every time you left the house. It was supposed to be a folk tale, silver’s immunity, but then again, so were vampires. You bought another silver bracelet, tarnished beyond belief. It was $15 dollars at a local thrift store, but the lady behind the counter sold it to you for less when you mumbled something about your breath about being scared of the surge in vampire attacks. When you went back, for a side table that would look nice next to the bed, she’d sold you some more silver jewelry. You had refused at first, saying two bracelets were enough then she showed you the headline of that morning’s paper - it was the shot of a crime scene cleanup, the picture focused on blood-stained snow left behind by the unfortunate victim, You squinted. In the background was a familiar alleyway. With a searing jolt in your chest, you recognized it as the the back alley to the side of your beloved brownstone, where Bucky and you took out the trash every Wednesday. You felt your gut twist at the sight of the recycling bins that were lined up neatly in the background of the shot.

You left the store with the side table tucked under your arm, and a bag of jewelry. You tried on the haul ten minutes later when you’d made it back up to the apartment (you’d tried really hard not to look at the bare patch of cement where bloody snow had been shoveled away by the police). You had eight rings, which was ridiculous, but she’d sold them to you all bundled up in a glassine envelope, for a decent price at that. You slid one onto each finger, leaving your thumbs bare. She sold you a silver choker, a thick band of chainmail that was roughly an inch wide. It looked like a piece of costume jewelry those at the local Renaissance Faire would only envy, but it was real silver, and protected your exposed neck. You let it rest over the warm skin of your throat, flinching at how cold it felt. No matter, it’d do a fine job.

The rest were loose piercings. You had an eyebrow piercing once upon a time, left over from your college days. With a little bit of finagling, you fit the ring into the notch of your left eyebrow. A septum ring too, just to be safe, and a pair of plain ball studs. At the bottom of the bag was a slender package wrapped in newspaper. You frowned, reaching into the bag. Feeling a bit silly with all the jewelry hanging off you, you unwrapped the package with careful hands. It was an antique letter opener, the dull shine the same as all the jewelry. It was blunt, but silver. Scrawled in sharpie on the paper, the woman behind the register had written “Just in case.”

_She’d been there when you picked up her newspaper with shaking hands, then excused yourself to rush to the bathroom and retch. She’d watched probably, when you left Bucky a slightly frantic voicemail. He’d called back, saying he couldn’t make it to the store before dark, but worry laced his voice. He asked why you were scared, if he should leave work. You remember the way he’d brushed you off that night two weeks ago. He saw threats on a daily basis, you reminded yourself, he didn’t need your paranoid, worried call about vampires of all things. He’d probably seen the headline. You called him back, said it was just a false alarm. You could take care of yourself_.

You put the letter opener in the drawer or your new bedside table, and took the pieces of jewelry off one by one. You were paranoid yes, but you were better safe than sorry. That night, for the two odd years you’d know Bucky, he came home late. He was supposed to be home at 10, but he stumbled through the door at a quarter past midnight.

“I couldn’t text,” he rasped, holding up his phone. “It died an hour ago.” He pulled you into his arms from your perch on the sofa. You’d startled badly when the front door literally swung open. It was so unlike Bucky to be loud. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you and I’m so _sorry_ I didn’t text or call, I was so f-”

You kissed his jaw, silencing him momentarily. “If I was mad, I’d tell you. I was just worried, you know? Scared something happened. You don’t have the safest job, and we don’t live in the safest area.” _Not safe when there were vamps running around_.

He held you closer, walking the two of you back to the bedroom. “I’m fuckin’ scary as hell,” he breathed, lowering you into the bed. You watched, curled under the sheets, as he stripped out of his work gear. “Ain’t no one gonna mess with me,” he turned back to look at you. In the dim lighting you could see him yank off his t-shirt, and flex. You laughed throatily. “Alright hot shot,” you whispered. “C’mon and hurry up. I want to be cuddled like, right now.”

You laughed sleepily, fondness warm in your chest. You let your arm flop over the side of the bed, an invitation for him to take your hands. He shucked off his jeans, yanked on a pair of sweats, then a soft long-sleeved tee. He took your hand in his, then jumped up and over you to his side of the bed. You both laughed quietly as you bounced on the mattress. Bucky’s cold hands you were familiar with, as he pulled you against his chest. It was easy to forgot to be afraid of everything outside the brownstone, knowing that at the end of every day, Bucky’d be there to hold you.

The next day, Bucky walked you to work as always, checking his phone as he went. He frowned. You nudged his shoulder, sipping at your tea. “Everything okay?” 

It took a moment for him to look up, those sharp eyes of his crinkling a little as he smiled down at you. “Yeah,” he breathed, a little cloud escaping his mouth. “Just a lot of stressful stuff going down at work. Client needs extra hands tonight.” He kissed you sweetly, like he did every morning, before turning heel and making his way back to the apartment. By the way he broke out into a jog, you knew he’d be taking his motorcycle to work. You frowned. 

That afternoon, two hours before you got off work, he texted you. _“I won’t be home until midnight. I can’t believe I’m gonna miss walking you home. Should Steve come walk with you?”_

Steve was Bucky’s friend from college, worked with him at the security company. He was another broad-shouldered, towering man, cut from the same good boy cloth as Bucky. Only Steve was a little dorkier, a little more bumbling, like someone’s overly friendly golden retriever who had to say hi to every passerby. 

_“No”_ , you texted back. _“I’ll be fine. I’m most likely going to leave work early.”_ And you did, thirty minutes earlier than normal. You practically sprinted home, a twenty minute walk turned into a fifteen minute trip. You had one man try to stop you, compliment you on “that pretty face a yours”, but you smiled and held up your phone like you were on a call. It still made you shiver, and walk faster. When you got home, you went to the drawer again. You read the news, on your phone this time, about yet another person found in the city who bled out from a neck wound. You texted Bucky, _“I know you won’t get to see this until later, but I love you. Stay safe. Dinner is on the stove.”_

You reheated spaghetti sauce Bucky’d made that weekend in the crock pot, ate satisfyingly large bowl of it with undercooked pasta and a pile of parmesan on top. The apartment was cold, it always was with the large windows in the living room and kitchen area, but it felt colder without Bucky. Bucky, he was always cold, but he made you feel warm.

You sat on the couch, watching the door. You were awake at ten after midnight, having exhausted all of your Netflix options. You sighed and slipped under a blanket. It was going to be a long night. You woke with a start, realizing all at once you were no longer curled on the couch.

“Hey hey, it’s alright. None a that. ‘S just me sweetheart.” You’d flailed, apparently in Bucky’s arms, going to elbow him in the neck just like he’d showed you. He’d found you in a sad little lump on the couch, and decided to carry you back to the room. You looped an arm around his neck, letting him readjust his hold on you. “Sorry I scared ya,” he whispered. He pressed a kiss to your lips, and you leaned up to meet him. His hair fell against your face, tickling at your neck. You pulled away when a strand got in your mouth.

“No worries.” You carded a lazy hand through his hair. “I just wasn’t expecting it. I’m glad you’re home safe.” He smiled down at you, easing you onto the bed. As usual, you watched him take off the day’s clothes. He moved stiffly tonight. You sat up in bed. “Are you hurt?” 

He turned to face you, easing a thermal shirt over his head. “Yeah. I was helping set up a security system in a new building, movin’ stuff out of a U-Hual, and I took a crate to the ribs like a dumbass.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” you began, swatting his ass.  
He danced out of reach. “Hey _hey_. Just a crate. And it’s only a bruise, I promise. It’ll be gone by the end of the week.” Hd bent to catch your outstretched hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. 

That night, his breathing rattled in his chest. You put a hand by his collarbone, as if it’d stop his breathing from from hitching on every inhale. Bucky slept soundly though, an arm tucked underneath you. 

He couldn’t walk you home the next night, or the night after that. On the fourth day, he’d left the house while you were still in bed. Still half-asleep, you woke just as he was shrugging on a jacket. “Go back to sleep, love,” he whispered, sitting on the dresser so he could lace up his boots. “Okay,” you whispered, watching him from the bed. He fished around in his pockets, tugging on pair of leather gloves. He made his way to your side of the mattress, crouching so he could meet your eyes. “I’ll be back late again,” he murmured, cupping your jaw. You relished the cool touch of his leather-clad hand against your face. “ ‘Kay. Kiss me before you go.” He did, taking your lips in a kiss that was long and sweet. He brushed his thumb over your cheekbone before pulling back. “Stay safe, okay? See if you can get someone to walk you home tonight, and if not, Uber, or leave before it’s dark.” His steely eyes didn’t leave yours until you nodded. 

“You too. Stay safe out there.” You held his hand for a little, making sure he’d nod as well. He did. “I’ll do my best.” And with that he swept out the door. You rolled over on the mattress, gathering the sheets to your chest so the bed felt less empty.

When you woke two hours later, you got ready for work and shot Bucky a good morning text.

The day was cold, the wintry air biting through every last layer. The walk to work was brisk, the day at work was long, and when you stepped out of the building, shouldering your bag, it was dark. You sighed, thumbing the home button on your phone. It was at 4%. You weren’t sure it would last you until an Uber got there. You sighed, kicking the snow off your shoes, and hoped the walk home would be a brisk one.

The snow fell in light little dots that settled in your hair, but you couldn’t find it in you to enjoy how picturesque it looked against the lights of the city. All you felt was cold. Bucky hadn’t texted you back the whole day, but some days, that was just the reality. It’d been weeks since Bucky’d had the time to pick up cider before walking over to your workplace, and with a little pang in your heart, you took a detour to get two cups. You’d microwave his when he got home. The entire walk home, you didn’t talk a single sip of your drink. It cooled rapidly in your hands. You sighed when your building came into view. You’d put the drinks in the fridge, and you and Bucky could have mediocre reheated cider together. 

You just had to cross the street, only thirty odd steps until you were back in the safety of your own building. You ducked through the throngs of people in the crosswalk, hurrying across the ice-slicked pavement. There was a man in a trench coat lingering by the door, talking into a phone. He was standing in front of the door. You carefully stepped into his field of vision. 

“Excuse me sir, if I could get by tha-”

He turned to you, and after a beat said, “Look, I’ll call you later.”

He hung up, shoved his phone into his pocket, and took a step towards you. “Do you live here?” You took a step back. He was a lean white man, clean shaven with hollow cheekbones, the hair buzzed close to his scalp. He held up his hands. “Mean no harm, I’m here with the local police force.” He flashed you his badge. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You nodded at him, eyeing the door.

“Ma’am, I just wanted to stop you to warn you to lock your doors tonight, and maybe not leave the building until tomorrow midday. We’ve had a confirmed vampire sighting in this area, and a victim was just rushed to the hospital.” His brows pulled before continuing. “If you see the suspect, please call and let us know. They were identified to be a tall, dark-haired male, but nothing more than that.” He flashed you a polite grin, one that showed all of his teeth. You nodded again. “Will do. Thank you for warning me.” He held the door for you, and you ducked in, and practically fled up the stairs, heart thundering in your ears. You called Bucky before you’d even made it up the stairs and you were a stuttering mess. It’d gone to voicemail, and your phone died right as you’d stammered out, “Hey Buck, wh-when are you going to be home?”

You could only hope it sent. You plugged into the charger with shaking hands, and it took you five minutes of just heavy breathing just to push yourself of the kitchen wall and take off your winter coat. You peered out the window once or twice, looking down to the snowed in alleyway below. It was behind the building, just forty feet from where they’d found the victim of the second vampire attack. You shuddered, but didn’t draw the curtains. At the mouth of the alleyways, that police officer stood, hands on his hips. When he turned, the holster of his gun caught the light. 

You slipped away from the window, towards the bedroom. It took a good while for you to peel off your winter coat, which was dripping bits of melted slush onto the floors. You shrugged on one of Bucky’s hoodies, sitting on the bedside. It felt more enclosed, safer in there, even though you knew the deadbolt and door latch were incredibly flimsy. Bucky’d changed the screws on the hinge, from half inch to three inch ones. “No one can get through here,” he’d said smugly.

You sat on the bed, staring out the window for a minute or ten. You watched the snow fall, convinced yourself that Bucky was safe, that the police officer was too. With steadier hands, you retrieved your laptop from your work bag, slid the cups of cider into the fridge, and padded back to the bedroom. You worked for an hour, until the clock read 9:47 PM. Your knees cracked when you unfolded them, standing up from your warm little blanket nest on the bed. You padded to the window, watching the snow fall heavier now. If you concentrated, it felt almost peaceful. You peered out the window again. No detective stationed at the mouth of the alley. There were footprints though, and you followed them aimlessly with your eyes. They led straight to the dumpster. You pitied the poor soul who’d gone to take out the garbage. The lid of the dumpster was open, and a thin blanket of snow collected inside. 

Your heart skipped a beat, and you leaned forwards, squinting. There was no way - 

The shape of a man’s face came into focus, staring up at you from three stories down. You let out a scream and jerked back. Clapping a hand over your mouth, you leaned forwards again. Now that you saw it, there was no way you couldn’t - in the dumpster was a man’s body, his limbs askew. The blue of his shirt, with the classic stripe running down the side of his pants, was clearly visible. Your heart pulsed in your throat. A splash of dark red, almost black, ran down the man’s neck and shirt. The snow landing on top began to turn a pale red.

Numbly, you hastened towards the kitchen, to pick up the phone and call the police, to tell them one of their own were lying dead in a dumpster outside your apartment building. You were three steps away from the countertop when a shot rang out, making you flinch horribly. There were two more, in quick succession. 

You yanked the phone off the counter and sprinted to the the bedroom, stumbling on the hardwood as you went. Your shoulder clipped the entrance of the bedroom door, but it barely registered, the dull wash of pain in your shoulder overridden by the desire to run faster, into the safety of your room where there was _silver_.

You picked up the letter opened first, placing it on the bed beside you Your hands were shaking too much to even pick up the rings. You simply jammed your fingers into the slippery glassine bag, letting your fingertips slide naturally through the rings that were facing the correct direction. The rest you tipped out on the bedspread with shaking hands. You barely caught one before it rolled off the bed, its solid weight stinging your palm as you caught it. It took you a solid minute and a half to get all eight rings situated on your hands, your bare thumbs reflexively curling into fists under your metal-clad knuckles. It was quiet outside, as far as you could tell. The only thing you could hear was the heating unit rattling in the ceiling. You slid on the bracelets, clasped the choker, and fiddled with the earrings.

It was unlike you to be careless, but the piercings, both on your face and in your earlobes, you jammed those into your flesh without a care in the world. The sting, especially in the eyebrow piercing, helped you focus. You wrapped your hand around the hilt of the letter opener, and you shifted towards the far edge of the bedroom. Your mind kept straying back to the man - the police officer - in the dumpster. The window was a burning kind of cold when you pressed your cheek against it, to stare down the back alley, to the dumpster. An ornamental ledge bordering the window blocked your view. You were shaking, breathing hard through your mouth. That man was left to die out there. Your resolved steeled, in the way you gripped the letter opener harder. Your phone in your other hand, you toed open the bedroom door. The living area was just as unassuming as when you’d fled to the bedroom. Some irrational part of you thought - what if being by the window left you exposed, left you vulnerable to being shot, being targeting - an unholy shiver went down your spine. A hard exhale left your lungs. 

You moved towards the window, in a crouch, so no one on the ground could see your illuminated figure behind the glass. 

Still gripping the phone, you hooked your fingertips on the the window ledge, preparing to pull yourself up. On the count of three, you decided shakily. 

On two, there were a series of shots. Not coming from outside. Not coming from outside at all, you realized with a searing jolt of terror. _Inside_ , where you were. You weren’t sure if you wanted Bucky home now, or far, far away from here. You flinched, hard enough to slam your head against the exposed brick wall. Clapping your hand over your mouth, you choked back a sob, a whimper, the urge to scream for help. There were more shots, too many for your to keep count. Then yelling, then footsteps, thuds, the window panes rattling in their aluminum frames the way you loathed. You felt like whoever was watching your from above had turned their back, for the noise, the fighting, was inexplicably getting louder and closer. You heard a bit off scream that had your hair raising, then were was a distinctly loud crash to the left of the front door. You were paralyzed by fear, eyes locked on the deadbolt, fingers locked around the hilt of the letter opener. You were still sprawled on the floor, back to the wall. 

The prey animal in you tried to stand, tried to find the urge to get up and bolt to safety. Your legs gave out beneath your when the door itself rattled. Bucky said no one could get through, and you trusted that, you trusted everything he’d tell you, but the fear lancing through your heart was _so bad_. Bucky was wrong, you thought numbly, as you watched the door, hinges and all, fly across the room, skidding across the floor to wind up not five feet from you. Your back slammed the window - the door, one you’d painted eggshell white with Bucky’s help, lay directly in front of you. Pointed at you. Let anyone know you were _right there_.

You tucked the letter opener behind your back, breathing harder. The hand holding your phone came up across your mouth, to muffle the gasps you so desperately wanted to take. God you were so scared and the last time you saw the man you loved was hours ago, and you probably wouldn’t see him again. You were so terrified, eyes still locked on your once-upright front door, that you almost missed the dark-clothed figure that staggered in.

You flinched even further, skittering towards the bedroom, away from the person, the one who’d literally rammed the door straight of out of the hinges, with it’s three inch screws that were once rooted securely in the wood. 

They noticed you, took a step towards you, but it was hard to tell in the dark what they looked like, what with the ceiling light being busted to shit with flying door debris. You didn’t even notice it flicker to a sputtering halt. You flinched, stumbling back. You didn’t pull out the letter opener. Not yet. It was your only and last line of defense. 

“I already called the police,” you yelled, bluffed, phone still clamped in your shaking hand. “Stay the fuck ba-”

“Wait,” the figure breathed, staggering a little, holding up their hands. You knew that voice like you knew the back of your hand, but also the same way you suddenly recognized the familiar slope of those shoulders in Bucky’s silhouette.

You started towards him, only a step, before another figure appeared in the door, gun brandished. 

Trench coat. Gun. It was the man, the police officer from earlier. He was panting, clutching at his side. He was hurt.

_So was Bucky_ , you realized with a start. 

The man strode forwards, left foot dragging unnaturally. The gun still aimed at Bucky, he calmly felt across one of the walls, until the lights flicked on. The light sent everything into glaringly sharp relief. The man, he was bleeding from his nose, from his chest, there was a gash across his scalp. His hand and gaze were steady, the muzzle of his gun pointed easily at Bucky’s chest. Bucky, whose back was to you, Bucky, whose back was arched with pain, but was still standing, trying to put something between you and the man with the gun.

“Strigoi,” the man with the gun spat. “Can’t go anywhere else, can ya?” He smiled ferally, smile reddened with blood. Recoiling at the sight, you made to draw your letter opener before realizing all at once, he wasn’t a vamp. Wasn’t _the_ vamp. His teeth were round and human-like, and he was carrying one of those special firearms, the ones you’d seen that were sold on the black market specifically for shooting vampires. 

Strigoi, you knew meant something. Read it in the papers once. 

“Scum,” Bucky snarled back, shifting on his feet. “You get the fuck out of here and run while you still can.” You’d never heard him talk like that, and it chilled you to the bone. 

The man smiled, calmly, like Bucky’d just insulted him with a friendly little jab. 

Bucky rasped out. “I’m gonna give you three fucking seconds to leave.” He swallowed audibly, biting back more. You could see his head tilt, his eyes straining towards you, but never leaving the man with the gun. The man with the gun motioned towards you with the gun, making Bucky lunge just a bit, forwards but also to the right, to cover you with his body. 

“Nice girl you got here.” He tilted his head to meet your eyes. “Hi sweetheart,” he cooed. It made you want to retch. Your vision warped a little. You didn’t even realize there were tears in your eyes. 

He looked back at Bucky. “So, what’s it going to be? You come quietly, or I put a bullet through your pretty little g-”

Bucky lunged, faster than you ever realized he could move, ducking low and fast under the barrel of the gun. One hand, you dimly realized, caught, latched securely around the man’s throat. They crashed into the counter, the man’s back slamming into the marble countertop. Caught off guard, he panicked, flailed, making the most awful inhuman squealing noise as Bucky continued to grip his throat. One hand pried at Bucky’s, futilely trying to dig his fingers out of the tender flesh of his neck. The other hand, still holding the gun, angled down, furiously trying to find a way to line up the barrel of the gun with Bucky’s back. You wanted to scream, but Bucky grabbed the man’s wrist without even looking back at the hand, and he snapped it with a sickening cracking noise that sounded like a piece of wood breaking. 

The man gurgled horribly, limp hand still ramming against Bucky’s body in an attempt to get him to let go. Bucky stood, hefting the man by his neck. With no effort at all it seemed, he strode out of the apartment, hauling the flailing man with him. For a second, the man, the man who no longer had the gun, he made frantic eye contact with you. The fear in his eyes, the panic, it burned straight through you. 

Bucky rounded the corner, back the way they’d both come, and you heard the sound of a body slamming against the ground. There was no way, no way it could be Bucky’s but you still jumped. You tried in vain not to listen to the noises coming from the hallway, tried to think if you should call the cops to let them know one of their own was dead in the dumpster and another one was lying dead down the hall, judging by the dull crack you’d just heard. 

Those familiar shoulders, the ones you failed to recognize earlier, came back into view. Except this time, he wasn’t just a dark silhouette backlit by the yellow light of the hallway. This time, his featured were on full display in the dim lighting of your apartment. 

He stood in the doorway for a beat, eyes scanning across the wrecked apartment, looking for you, you presumed. Your eyes scanned him. 

_Strigoi_ , he’d called Bucky. 

He was panting. Mouth open. The white teeth you’d traced with your tongue every time you kissed him were coated in a slick of blood, but not enough to hide the fangs. They were longer than you could’ve ever pictured. 

His eyes, his eyes were red. 

Maybe this was a bad dream, and everything was supposed to be red, you thought numbly. Every little thing was red, from Bucky’s eyes, to the blood still slick on his lips, to the blood streaked on his chin, and the freshest blood, the layer of it that coated his hands. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I re-edited this work and decided to post it as a three-chapter fic :)

Maybe it was the sweat on your hands, or maybe it was how hard you were shaking, but you dropped your phone. And quite the shame it was, said the little fear beast in your brain, that you hadn’t even gotten the chance to call the police yet. 

Bucky’s head snapped towards the sound, towards, you, and he started your way, kicking aside a chair that had gotten knocked over during his brawl earlier. You stumbled back, back into the corner wall adjacent to your bedroom, but your arm flung out, almost on instinct. The silver letter opener flashed in the light. Said what your words, stuck in your tight throat, failed to. 

The fact that he stopped, when his red eyes landed on the letter opener, it said enough. You knew it was silver, so did he. His dark brows creased, like he couldn’t figure out why you knew it was silver too.

“This,” he swallowed harshly. “This isn’t what it looks like. Please just, trust me and put that down. You’re fine.”

A fat tear rolled down your cheek, down your neck, the cold air chilling the stripe of wet skin. You tilted your head defiantly, angling the letter opener with both hands when he shifted his weight.

“Don’t come closer. Don’t y-you dare. You just,” you heaved a frantic sob, “you _killed_ a man in front of me. Don’t you _dare_.”

Bucky, god right now he looked so much like the man you’d fallen in love with, but the blood, the other man’s blood in his mouth and on his fists, it made him a stranger. 

“I was keeping you safe,” he cried, bloody fingers lacing though his hair. The blood was still fresh enough that it wasn’t a tacky film on his hands, didn’t make his fingers catch on the fine strands of brown hair. 

“Hey, hey look at me, please.” He held his arms out carefully, as if that would make him seem any more harmless. “It’s just _me_. I ain’t gonna hurt you. I would never hurt you, you _know_ that.” 

You didn’t want to even meet his red eyes. They weren’t candy apple red the way horror movies made them, with colored contact lenses. They were a deep, pulsing red, just a shade lighter than the blood he’d spilled. His mouth still hung open a little, and you wished to god that those fangs weren’t real, but they caught the light, changed the tone of every words that fell from his lips.

You wrapped your free arm around your midsection, raising the letter opener just a hair. You weren’t sure if you could bring yourself to use it. “Stay away from me,” you growled, the heady rush of adrenaline making you brave, making you _angry_. 

“Okay,” he said simply, nodding a bit. “Alright.” He took one step back, then two. The familiar way he looked at you for approval, with the uptick of of his eyebrows, it made you want to believe that it was your boyfriend in there. “Is that good, love? Anything to make you feel better.” He shifted on his heels, now ten feet away. 

You let out an incredulous laugh, choking a bit on your saliva. “Stay away means _get out or let me leave_.” His hopeful expression broke, and he let his head drop. He huffed. 

“It’s not safe right now. You - you can’t leave.” He looked at you with that hopeful expression again. 

“I _can’t_ leave?” His jaw shifted slightly, like he wanted to backtrack. “It’s not safe,” you parroted, throat raw. “It’s not safe out there, literally anywhere else in the world where I’m not stuck in an apartment with a _monster_.”

His brows twisted again, like he couldn’t understand why you were so petrified, so angry.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I never have and I never, ever would.” He said each word slowly, carefully, like it would change the way you felt. “You,” he huffed. “You don’t need to be scared. I’m here.”

A wet laugh bubbled out of your throat. “You’re here. That doesn’t mean jack shit. I just watched you fucking strangle a police officer in front of me, and you came back with blood on your hands and _in your mouth_? I don’t need to be scared? I’m more scared than I’ve ever been in my entire life.”

Bucky, if that was even his name, you realized with a pang, tilted his head. His eyes were wet, something that in the past, you would have never expected out of your tough salt and leather Brooklyn boy. “Are you afraid of me?” he whispered.

“The fuck do you think?” you hissed back, hefting the letter opener, fingers still white knuckled and throbbing dangerously. He tilted his head up towards the ceiling. He wiped the wetness out of his eyes with bloody knuckles.

“Love,” he whispered, “I know this ain’t gonna change a thing, but you _never_ have to be afraid of me. In the two and some years I’ve known you …” he slowly sank to the floor, kneeling with his hands still held disarmingly to his sides. His eyes searched yours. “This okay?” he mumbled. 

He swallowed hard before continuing. “In the years I’ve known you, have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?” You wanted to spit fire, scream that the past didn’t matter know when everything you knew about him was a lie, but the fear beast in your brain had quieted. Or maybe it was singing a different tune. _Bucky was a good egg through and through_ , you’d told family and friends. _Oh no he’s the best_ , you’d gush. _Just looks a little scary_. From the day you met him, he always respected your boundaries, asked for consent in every little aspect of your relationship when it became a thing. He never raised his voice, not even when you argued enough to make him want to tear his hair out. He’d never raised a hand against you, never made you even consider he could use his strength against you. 

“Please, love,” he bit out.

“Don’t call me that,” you barked. “I don’t know who you are anymore, so do _not_ call me that.” You looked away at the way he bit his lip. He looked glossy eyed again. You had to tell yourself that wasn’t the man you knew, but it hurt like hell to see him cry. 

As an afterthought, “You’re lucky I didn’t call the police.”

Bucky’s eyes searched the floor, and dropping a hand, he slid your fallen phone across the hardwood floor. It bumped your foot. “Go ahead,” he offered, lips tilting up. “Call ‘em if you want. I’ll get out of here, you won’t have to see me again.” He licked his lips, which god, you wished he wouldn’t, not with the blood coating his tongue.

“But if there’s any part of you that still trusts me, that’ll give me a chance to explain things, I’ll stay.” He tacked on a rushed, “Right here. I won’t move. Not til you say it’s okay.”

You picked up the phone shakily, eyes never leaving him. You switched the letter opener to your left hand, wincing at the way it felt when your fingers uncurled. You picked up the phone, barely registering the cracked screen. It turned on when you thumbed the home button.

“Explain,” you demanded. “Explain and if you say _one thing wrong_ , I’ll call the cops.” You held your finger over the emergency call button. 

He nodded sharply. “Of course. Whatever y’say.” 

He coughed. “Just so you know, I can’t get any closer than like three feet, if that makes you feel better. The silver is strong enough.”

You glanced at the letter opener. “You can’t prove that,” you snarled. You were shaking still, with how mad, how afraid you were. 

He nodded by your feet. “I think your septum ring came off. Let me hold it, I’ll prove it.” Glinting up at you from the floor was the stupid clip on septum ring, which was too heavy to stay anchored on your skin. You kicked it towards him with a frown. He wiped his hands on his jeans and bit his lip. It took him a beat to reach for the ring, but once he did the reaction was almost instantaneous. He was wincing before he’d even made contact with it. The second it was grasped between his fingertips, smoke began curling from his flesh. The smell of cooking flesh was nauseating, but even more stomach churning was the low keen Bucky let out. 

“Drop it!” you cried, when it was clear he wouldn’t until you gave the okay. He had to pry it from his fingertip with shaking hands. 

He gave you a rueful grimace, and you could see the twin ring-shaped indents that were seared in his flesh. He tucked his hand away, flattening his palm against his ribs. Where he was bleeding through his shirt. 

“I heal fast,” he ground out. “Got stabbed with a steel alloy knife.”

You tilted your head towards the open doorway, trying not to retch, “You killed him. How should I trust that?” Your words were flat, toneless, but you trembled like a leaf.

Bucky let out a ragged breath. “I’ve been a vampire since I was seventeen. I was sired, or uh, bitten, changed, whatever, not by my own accord. I was scared, didn’t know what had happened until the vampire that sired me tried to coax me into drinking blood. Brought me a glass of it, as fuckin’ awful as that is. I drank it, ‘cause I was scared. It sated that unnatural hunger but that moment I _knew_ it was wrong. Ran away from home, tried to starve myself, waited to die, but it took weeks for me to even look malnourished. I met another vampire by accident, and she took me to her house. Showed me we didn’t even have to drink human blood to get by.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, interrupting his story. “Excuse me?’

He waved a hand, looking around. “ ‘S hard to explain but,” he got up, making you flinch. He winced, but ducked back towards the kitchen, threw open the fridge. His eyes flitted to the two cups of cider you’d bought hours ago - you’d scrawled his name on one the cups with a heart next to it. He stooped, reaching for a package in the fridge. He pulled out a steak, closed the door quietly and carefully the way he always did. He looked animalistic, you thought with unease, when he returned slowly to his spot on the floor, fingers tearing at the butcher’s paper covering the cut of meat. He’d always liked red meat, the fear beast whispered faintly.

He lifted the steak out with blood-stained fingertips, meeting your eyes. “I’m sorry,” he offered, before baring his fangs, and sinking them into the meat. His eyes flitted around, meeting yours once or twice, but you eyed him, and the hunk of meat clutched in his hand. The steak, flushed a brilliant red, began losing its color.

You watched with morbid fascination as the steak became a pale, fleshy pink, that still resembled meat but was so different from how it’d been moments earlier. He tossed it back into the paper, wiping his hands on his jeans, a revolting mixture of meat juice and human blood. 

He tilted open his mouth, and you were shocked and a little disgusting to see it was brimming with blood. It chilled you when he swallowed it easily, like he’d just taken a sip of water. He looked away at your expression of revulsion.

“That’s how most of us do it,” he said quietly. “Little known fact, but government approved blood sales happen at most cattle ranches. Lotta blood can come out of a cow, can feed two to three vampires for three weeks each. Blood, it tastes bad no matter where it comes from. It just quiets that hunger, I guess. Some vampires, they feed on humans ‘cause it’s easier, ‘cause some predatorial part of them thrills in a hunt.” He stopped at the look on your face.

“Some of them learn to hunger for human blood more, because of that.”

You shoved the phone in your back pocket. He followed the movement, but continued talking.

“That man, he’s part of an organization, one of many who wants to slaughter all vampires. It’s understandable, I guess, why they want bad vampires to go. But there are many, so many, who don’t understand we were human before, still human after, and that we didn’t want to be the way we were. It’s unheard of for vampires to have children, as it means their child’ll be a vamp too.”

Bucky wanted a kid, he’d told you that once, rueful grin on his face. 

“Anyways, he always went after me. I’d killed a few other vampires in my time, some of the really godawful fuckers that went after people. He thought I was trying to move up in the ranks, form some sort of hierarchy among the other vamps. Was convinced I’d try to take over the world or something. He’s chased me across the world for the past seven years, and I was sure I’d lost him. He kept coming with the threats and one day,” he sucked in a breath, shakier than you’d ever expect.

“One day he tracked me back to my family, and killed my kid sister, as a threat. She was nineteen.” Becca, he’d told you about her. She was Bucky’s world when he was growing up. Twice you’d been, to visit her grave with him. Both times, he’d brought sunflowers and a letter, wished her a happy birthday. You’d gotten on your knees with him, helped him clear the overgrown grass and dead leaves from around her headstone.

“God, I tried so hard to die that day,” he whispered.

Your chest ached.

“Anyways, that man, he inherited the hunt from the leader of their cult, and he was more aggressive than the last guy, Pierce. This one, Rumlow, tried to frame me, in a sense. Was ex-military, and used that to sneak up on people and puncture their throats. Tried to make it look like a vampire did it, try to make the signs lead back to me ‘cause he did it around here. Cornered him a few days ago and he got away, stabbed me then too. Tried to expose me to my employers.”

He grinned up at you. “Most of them are vamps too, so it didn’t go well.”

The fear beast latched on to the fact that Bucky came home with a stab wound, and all of a sudden you remembered the night his breathing rasped and he clutched at his ribs in is sleep. He passed it off like it was nothing.

He coughed. “He called me Strigoi, which I initially thought was a myth. Vampires sire or change new vampires, but Strigoi are vampires who were bitten by some of the oldest, original vampires. The transfer of power is a little extreme, and it creates new, incredibly strong vampires.”

“And is that you?” You found yourself whispering. You replayed the moment where Bucky’d used his body as a battering ram to take out the door, when he’d lifted the man that was as large as him by just his neck, with one hand at that,

“Yes.” 

You shivered minutely.

“This is the only thing I’ve ever kept from you,” he said hesitantly, getting up into a crouch. You didn’t startle backwards, but it made you tense, impossibly so. “I never knew how to say it, how to tell you without making you run. And maybe that was selfish of me, but I also didn’t want you to know in case one of those cult freaks ever bumped into you. Just knowing what I am is dangerous enough.” You swallowed hard.

“How’s that supposed to make me trust you?” you whispered.

“I don’t know,” he ground out. “I know though, that I love you. Sweetheart, I love you so much and the life we had here,” he waved around, “is something I’ll always treasure. Again, I’ll never talk to you again if that’s what you want. My security company, we can uh, keep one or two men looking out for you at all times, just to make sure this incident never follows you.” He picked at his cuffs. Blood matted his hair, made it stick to his neck.

You put the letter opener down and began to cry, long and hard. The tears poured into your open mouth, the taste of grief so startling clear. You thought for a moment, that even blood couldn’t taste this bitter. Sobbing opened your lungs and throat, made you want to retch at the smell of iron in the air. 

And so you heaved, violently, but thank god you hadn’t eaten dinner yet, so nothing came up. 

Bucky stared back at you, red eyes watering. You curled your arms around yourself, the cold of the rings and bracelets chilling your bare arms. “Don’t offer that just yet,” you croaked. “I don’t even trust you enough for that. Keep your ‘men’ away from me.” He ducked his head. “Right.”

You pretended not to notice the tears trickling down his jaw, cutting pinkish rivulets through the blood on his face.

“You drank that man’s blood,” you said numbly. “Rumlow, whatever the hell his name was. You said you didn’t do that.”

Bucky shook his head. “He punched me in the face, and my uh,” he gestured to the fangs, “these sliced up the inside of my mouth.” The surprise must’ve bled through on your face, over the distraught crease of your brows, because Bucky laughed a little. “Stupid, right? Also he wasn’t a cop. Think he stole a guy’s badge.”

His smile slipped off when he looked over at you, and he let his head tilt again. 

You didn’t want to turn your back, but it took you a few seconds to find the will to stand, peer out the window. 

Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face. “It was too late when I saw the officer back there.” Right as he said that, you heard the telltale break of sirens cutting through the winter wind. 

“We have to get out of here,” he murmured, rising fast. “Please trust me when I say you don’t want to deal with the cult that’s infiltrated the police force.” You didn’t move. “I’ll take my chances.” Bucky raked a hand through his hair. “Please, _please_ come with me. You’ll never have to see me again after tonight, I just don’t want more people here to recognize your face and tie it back to me.” He searched your eyes, panting slightly from the effort of forcing himself up. “If it makes you feel safe, keep the silver. No vampire can come near you like that, but please just let me clean up this mess.” He tucked hands in his pockets, dragging a toe on the ground. The gesture was so _Bucky_ it made another tear leak down your face. You pushed it away frustratedly, and stooped to gather the letter opener. 

“What’s the plan?” you bit out. Bucky sighed, muttering out a “thank god”. “Backup is waiting outside. We’ll go out the back stairwell.” He started out of the apartment, looking back at you. You followed at a healthy distance, keeping three yards between you at all times. Taking the stairs was particularly difficult. Even though you both were rushing, Bucky didn’t hesitate to hold the door for you. From several feet up, on the last flight of stairs, you hesitated, not wanting to walk by him. You weren’t even sure how much you trusted him anymore, how much you loved him, but the fear beast screamed at you not to show your back to him, not to let your tender throat get anywhere near those fangs.

You eyed him. “Why are your eyes normal again.” 

“They come out when I’m threatened, or when I smell blood and it’s too strong to ignore.” He shifted uncomfortably. There was a car waiting out back, black and nondescript. It had the Uber sticker on the windshield, but when the tinted window slid down you saw Steve. Definitely not an Uber, just a cover, you presumed. Bucky ducked away, letting you push the door open yourself. You stepped out into the snow just in time to see his hand linger on the door. Bucky, ever the gentleman, insisted on opening every door for you. 

You hung back by the door until he stepped into the front of the SUV, murmuring something under his breath to Steve. After a beat, you hurried across the snowy ground to the car. You weren’t even wearing socks, and the chill bit at your bare skin.

You tucked your feet up on the bench, deciding which seat to take. In the end, you took the one on the left side of the car, behind Steve. Steve, whose nostrils were flaring, whose head was ducked, who tried to avoid glancing up at you with his red eyes. You let out a small scream and recoiled so hard you slammed your head against the window. Both men immediately moved to console you, Steve to apologize, Bucky to reach out and comfort you, but they stopped when you shrank against the glass, letter opener out where they could see it. “Please,” you said levelly, hands shaking, “stay _the fuck_ back.”

And so Steve drove, head ducked the whole time. He and Bucky talked amongst themselves, occasionally glancing back. Bucky made two incredibly terse phone calls, steely eyes flitting to the mirror to look back at you. You tried really hard not to look at the blood caked under his nails, dried to his skin. His eyes followed your gaze and he made that pathetic pained face again that you hated so much right now, hated because you didn’t want to pity him. You just wanted to be angry, wanted to be afraid, and you absolutely did not want to feel the sharp stab of longing that clawed at your chest.

About an hour in, you worked up the nerve to ask, “How much further?” 

Steve blushed, interesting on a vampire, before responding with, “Another two hours or so.” 

He, being a gentleman, pretended not notice when you wilted in the backseat. The tears came easily again, but you didn’t want to cry. It made you feel colder than you already did. It was past one, you estimated, when you fell asleep.

You woke up in a bed you weren’t familiar with, in a room you didn’t recognize, in a city you didn’t know. Naturally, you yelped, shoving off the covers and stumbling out of bed. You were still barefoot, armored in all your silver. The letter opener, you noticed belatedly, rested on the bedside table. Next to a note. 

“ _You were asleep when we arrived. Maybe it was shock or exhaustion, we weren’t sure, but you didn’t wake up when we tried calling you, so we had two of our on staff medical team bring you here (both human). I hope this wasn’t a breach of your bodily autonomy, but the med team was concerned about bringing your temperature back up. Feel free to leave the room if you need anything_.”

The note wasn’t signed, but you knew that handwriting, knew exactly who it belonged to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmk what you think !!


	3. Chapter 3

You picked up the letter opener, taking five or so minutes to pace, work up the nerve to push the door open. The room was at the end of a hallway, by the looks of it, a large house. Your bare feet slapped against the hardwood in a way that made you cringe. If you were grateful for one thing, besides being alive and unharmed, it was the fact that the very considerate medical team had tended to the mild wounds your hands and feet had sustained. And, something you realized belatedly, the fact that Bucky reassured you everything had been taken care of in a professional and clinical manner, while you were unconscious.

You crept down the hall, feeling a bit ridiculous at the way you had the letter opener hefted above your shoulder. 

The hallway gave way to a beautifully open living space, a wide kitchen that bordered a sort of family room with couches and armchairs. It was empty, save for one long-haired figure sitting at the kitchen table, arms folded over his chest. He looked weary, scrolling through his phone, the blue light illuminating the familiar dark circles he had when he was stressed. He looked harmless, in just a faded red hoodie and grey sweats, socked feet crossed at the ankles. He had the good grace to look up when you padded to the end of the hallway, like he hadn’t heard you coming the whole time. 

You didn’t say anything, but dropped your hand, the letter opener thumping nervously against your thigh. That, you supposed, said enough.

“Everything feeling okay?’” he said carefully, tucking his feet towards himself. He watched you with those wide, doe eyes. 

You nodded, eyes traveling over his features. There wasn’t a speck of blood on him. His hands were clean, his hair looked freshly washed, you’d bet he’d even scrubbed under his nails.

“Where are we?” He nodded in response. “Three hours to the west of the city. Old country farmhouse that Steve and the other folks on the security team go to for privacy.” 

You wrapped your arms around yourself. It was still cold. “Is that a front? The security thing? Or is it a coincidence that you’re all vampires”

He shrugged. “Yes and no. We have the enhanced strength to have a good line up of security personnel, but a lot of the time we do business with other vampires. We still work with humans though, just not as often. It’s a pretty lucrative business,” he said by way of explanation, waving a hand at the house around him.

There was silence then, that permeated the whole room. It was nauseating, to be honest. You’d never felt this uncomfortable around the man you loved. Was it past tense, the love?

You replayed the train of events in your mind. He lied to you. He killed a man in front of you. He admitted to killing more people. You couldn’t play God, you knew that, trying to weigh his sins, but everything he had done was in self defense, or to kill a killer. Still, he knew what it felt like to take someone’s life, and that chilled you to the bone. But, he was the man who slept in your bed every night, pressing his cold nose to your neck and falling asleep like that. He’d never bitten you, never tried anything. The fear beast reminded you that you have no way of knowing if he bit other people or not. Yet, this was still the man that sunk his fangs into an ice cold steak just to show you he was safe, that he only drank animal blood, that he didn’t even like it. 

If he wanted to hurt you, he could’ve done it in any of the two years you lived in the same apartment.

“You really scared me Bucky,” you said, eyes locking on to his. “I’ve never seen you that … angry, never seen anything like that. I’m not going to lie, it’s hard to look at you and see the same person that I fall asleep with every night …”

You swallowed hard, pushing the heel of your hand into your eyes, furiously wiping away oncoming tears.

“But part of me still trusts you, or else I would’ve called the police, and not gotten in the car with you.”

You sniffled.

“God, Buck, I’m so scared right now but I still love you and that scares me even more, not knowing if that’s the right thing or not.” You held out the letter opener. Really looked at it. Took a deep breath, and put it on the coffee table by your knee. He couldn’t come near you if he wanted to, not geared up the way you were, but that was a start.

You finally met Bucky’s eyes, startled to find they were red again. He was tearing up something fierce. “It’ll go away,” he said, waving at his face. “Happens when I get real emotional.” He blinked back tears, blinked away the red in his irises. He cocked his head. “Say no if you want, but can I come closer?” You felt a little stupid nodding, twisted your ringed fingers against one another. 

He stood to his full height, took one step, then two, before hanging back with a crestfallen look. “You’re afraid,” he said quietly. “I can hear your heartbeat speeding up.”

You ducked your head, finding it in you to smile. “Well, that’s not weird or anything. Any other super senses you wanna tell me about?”

He stared at you with the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I can smell what blood type people are,” he offered up, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

You wrinkled your nose, letting out a halfhearted “Ew.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, giving you a grimace. “I ain’t one to talk, but this sucks.” You nodded meekly. “It kinda does.”

You toed the floor nervously. “I’m a little terrified right now yeah, but I don’t think I can get my legs to work. You can keep comin’.” It was hard, making eye contact with him, especially when his blue eyes flickered red for a split second, like flipping through channels on a TV. 

“If you say so,” he hedged, taking a small step forwards. You said nothing, watching with your arms tucked across your chest as he made his way across the kitchen to you. True to his word, he stopped about three feet away, where you could see his nose wrinkle at being so close to your veritable hoard of silver. 

“Silver smells awful to vamps,” he said, by way of explanation. 

You were shaking a little bit, leftover anxiety coming back to haunt your bones, send a chill down your spine. You sniffled again. 

“Shit, sweetheart I don’t wanna make you cry _more_.” He hunched over, trying to make himself smaller. 

“No, no,” you breathed shakily, waving him off. “ ‘S just hitting me now that guy tried to kill you. It’s not all fear. Don’t give yourself so much credit.” He laughed weakly. 

You closed your eyes, screwed them shut really, and began yanking the rings off your fingers two at a time. You let them drop and ping all over the hardwood floor, rolling every which way, but you were too scared to look, to think about being vulnerable. The bracelets you simply shook off your wrist, them being loose and heavy enough to do so. You collected the piercings, let those fall as well.

“I’m making a mess right now, yeah?” you sighed, hands resting on the choker’s clasp.

“Lil bit,” Bucky choked out. 

You opened your eyes, trying really hard to be brave when you bared your neck in the presence of your vampire boyfriend. You let out an involuntary whimper when his eyes went red for a _split second_.

“Hey,” you warned, no real heat to your voice, “I’m tryin’ real hard right now so _pleasestopbeingscary_.”

He winced, covering his eyes with a large palm. “I can get sunglasses,” he offered lamely. You both laughed a little too much, but when he dropped his hand his eyes were the way you’d always known them to be.

He looked so handsome, like this, scruffy and endearingly awkward. 

_Fuck fuck fuck._

__

__

_Fuck it._

“Hug?” you said, by way of explanation. Your heart was ready to beat a damn hole through your ribs.

He held out his arms for you, so hopeful. His eyes were so full of love, that in the split second it took for your to throw yourself into his arms, you wondered how you could ever doubt him. You were trembling a little, against his chest, but you fisted your hands in the baggy material of his hoodie. _This_ , after an awful twelve hours, this felt like coming home, and in a way you supposed, it was. You braced your hands on his shoulders, jumping up and hooking your legs around his waist. He caught you, held you closer than you thought possible. 

One arm formed a seat under your legs, holding you securely against him, the other coming up to cradle you. His hand worked from the small of your back up to your shoulders, where he eventually moved his hand to stroke your hair. His nose was cold against your cheek. “I love you, so so much,” he whispered, “and that ain’t shit right now, I know, but god I thought I’d never hold you again. I’m sorry I gave you a reason to be afraid of me. You don’t deserve that.”

You leaned back, enough to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry I threatened to stab you. And swore at you a lot,” you sniffled back, unhooking one of your hands from around his neck so you could stroke his jaw. Tremors still ran through you.

“I’m used to it,” he joked, pressing a sweet kiss to your palm. You laughed wetly, as did he. It took a little bit of nerve, but you kissed him chastely. 

“Not ready for any tongue stuff just yet,” you said shyly. He nodded fervently. “Of course. No worries.”

He moved the pair of you to the couches, where he collapsed gracelessly, leaving you semi-straddling his lap. You pulled your legs out from underneath him, making faces as you got yourself oriented properly. His hands looped at the small of your back. It made you feel safe, you realized with a trill of anxiety. 

“Hey,” you said, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie. He tilted his head at you. 

“Exposure is good, I think, for this kind of thing, so I think while we’re still like this, you should do the vampire thing. Y’know, drop the fangs, do the scary eyes.”

Poor boy, bless his heart, shook his head, stroking the small of your back. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he began. “I think I’d tear up some more if I frightened you again.” You shrugged, playing with the strings some more. You began to tie them into a neat bow, fidgeting with the ends until it was symmetrical. “It’s an integral part of who you are, no? I shouldn’t be bothered by it if it’s just how you look sometimes. Besides, I _asked_. You aren’t forcing me into an uncomfortable situation.”

Bucky stared at you long and hard. 

“And what if it freaks you out?”

“If it freaks me out, worst case scenario I fall off your lap screaming, hit my head on the coffee table, then cry for the next fifteen minutes while hyperventilating. Then we’re back to square one.” You smacked him playfully on the chest to punctuate the end of the sentence. 

He looked incredibly unamused.

You smoothed a hand over his heart. “If it freaks me out, well it isn’t going to always be that way, okay? I mean we’re already here” you motioned at the distance between the two of you, “and last night I wouldn’t let you come near me without being fully armed.” He sighed, dropping his head to one side and pinning your hand between his head and his shoulder. He lazily kissed your wrist. “I was impressed,” he hummed. “Even though you were scared shitless … I couldn’t help but think how brave you were, going toe to toe with a vampire like that. Makes me proud to be your guy.” You wiggled your hand free, and ran it carefully through his hair. “I mean, I was gearing up for a big scary vampire, worst case scenario. If I knew it was just you, I would’ve bought a silver spoon and called it a day. Throw it at you when you piss me off.”

His mock growl eased the tension.

“Give me a few seconds to get it to happen,” he mumbled, tipping his head back against the cushion. You admired the column of his throat, watching his adam’s apple bob. “You should really shave soon,” you mused, twisting your hands on your lap. His eyelids fluttered a bit and he grunted. “It makes me looked rugged.”

It was quiet for a few moments more, then you felt his fingers tap your back, letting you know he was ready.

He lifted his head back up, eyes deliberately closed. “We good?” he mumbled. You tried in vain not to look near his mouth. “Yep.”

It still sent a pang of _something_ through your heart when he regarded you carefully with red eyes. It made him look a completely different person. His hand soothed at your back. It traveled up around your chest to lay flat just beneath your collarbone. 

“ ‘S going pretty fast,” he said, gently tapping right above your heart. “Oh excuse me,” you shot back, trying to make your voice even. “Not my fault that my god-given prey instincts are telling me to run. Here I was thinking you wanted me to have good survival instincts.”

He bit his lip, eyeing you. He then deliberately cracked a smile. Bucky rarely smiled with all his teeth, unless you made him laugh long and loud, and he’d throw his head back, mouth open. 

“Wo-ow,” you breathed a little shakily, backing up just the slightest. His hand returned to your back, this time making small circles between your shoulder blades. “Hey, we’re okay,” he mumbled, and damn if your eyes just wouldn’t leave his fangs. They were a lot longer than you expected, reaching down past the other teeth almost to his bottom gum line. Absolutely lethal. 

“They’re s’posed to trigger a fear response,” he mumbled. “Some study came out talking ‘bout how vampires have a … supernatural ability of sorts to intimidate people. Something about our eyes - it ain’t even the fact they’re plain scary like they’re almost guaranteed to cause a spike in adrenaline.”

You nodded, looking away briefly. “It’s pretty effective.” He kept stroking your back. 

“I thought you wanted to make progress,” came the teasing lilt of his voice. “I don’t know if looking slightly to my left the whole time is gonna get us anywhere.”

You dug your nails into the meat of his bicep, making him squirm. “Don’t make me go back for that letter opener,” you threatened, resolutely trying to move your eyes up. You aimed for playful, but your tone came off short.

Even though it was just him, those eyes up close and personal, made you want to crawl off his lap and stare at him from a safe distance of thirty five feet. But that would hurt his feelings, and god forbid you did that again.

You tried to take in his face as a whole. The new red eyes, but framed by the familiar crinkles you were used to seeing when he smiled. The way they shone out at you, from under the heavy line of his brow. Red wasn’t inherently a bad color, you reasoned. His eyes were the color of mulled wine, roses, the cranberry sauce he made every year for the holidays.

Even when he wasn’t smiling, simply giving you a closed-mouth grin, you could still see a faint bulge in his upper lip where the fangs were. 

“Sing for me,” you mumbled, meeting his eyes, the fear beast settling down in the dark corner of your brain. If you let your heart quiet, the beast might even fall asleep.

“ ‘Scuse me?”

“Please? I have an idea.” You chucked him under the chin, deliberately lacing your hands around his neck. The fear beast was almost asleep in your mind, one lazy eye peeled open to watch for danger.

Bucky began to hum. “This one’s from the fifties, I think.” He wasn’t classically trained, voice always a little raspy, but you loved the way he sang. His warm baritone filled the room, even when he was just crooning along to please you, voice barely above a whisper.

“ _Each time we have a quarrel, it almost breaks my heart_ ,” he sang, winking sweetly. “ _Cause I'm so afraid that we will have to part_.”

“ _Each night I ask the stars up above, why must I be a teenager in love?_ ” You watched his lips form the words, watched as they eventually curled up into a smile from the way you were staring at him. The fangs, you noticed, made him lisp.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead before continuing.

“ _One day I feel so happy, next day I feel so sad. I guess I'll learn to take the good with the bad._ ”

You wiggled in his lap, turning around so your back was against his chest. He wrapped his arms loosely around your waist, pausing when you let your head rest on his shoulder, throat casually (deliberately) bared. A sign of trust.

“ _Cause each night I ask the stars up above, why must I be a teenager in love?_ ”

You kisses his jaw, cutting him off. “Sweet song.” 

The whole time he sang, you watched his eyes dance, saw his fangs sit there harmlessly. He looked terrifying, yes, but you supposed with time, it would just seem like part of Bucky’s appearance. Singing made the fangs seem so regular, nestled among all his other teeth. It was endearing almost, when you realized they made him lisp just the slightest bit.

You let your eyes close. “It’s been a long day Buck. I love you, and that _hasn’t changed_. Just be patient with me as I’ll be patient with you, and we’re gonna get over this.” You felt him nod. “Don’t even take a sip while I’m out,” you muttered, getting comfortable. 

His affronted huff made you giggle, but you were already half asleep anyways. God, communicating was so tiring.

You took a cat nap against Bucky’s chest, enjoying the steady thud of his pulse. Another myth, you thought sleepily, that the media had gotten wrong - vampires, their hearts still worked, damn well at that. 

You just had to go and pick the one with the biggest heart of them all.

\-------  
It was five days later, and you were back at the brownstone. The snow piled up against the brick facade by the foot of the building, tall enough that the build super had braved the chill with a shovel and cleared a path for you all, should there be any reason you’d _want_ to go out in that weather. 

It was almost December at that point. The month was subdued by the sluggish cold that permeated your bones, your very being, and whited out the world outside the window. On days like those, you normally would’ve holed up in the brownstone if you could, feet tucked up underneath you on the soft, a certain someone by your side. You didn’t go back right away though, hesitant to come home to the apartment and see rust brown blood smearing the floor and the walls and _everything_ \- 

But Bucky’d installed a new door, with even stronger reinforced hinges, and the exterior was painted robin’s egg blue. It was a welcome change, you supposed. 

And so, you’d left the house by the countryside after five days of waiting for the weather to be more agreeable, and for the rest of the bad to scuttle out of your apartment like fleeing roaches. Bucky’d texted you the all clear late one night. They’d found the last of Rumlow’s inner circle, had taken them into custody. The government, as much as they feigned indifference, had sent an FBI detail to collect the men. 

But they didn’t take Bucky, Bucky whose cold hands had cracked another man’s spine in his hands.

That took some time getting used to, knowing how strong he was. You knew, right away, when you’d first met, that Bucky was built like an ox, with broad shoulders and a trim waist, corded forearms that tapered to long-fingered hands. Bruised knuckles to boot. 

You never questioned his power, laughed yourself silly when he’d throw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Even thought it was useful when you were in need of somebody to haul your armchair up several flights of stairs ‘cause it wouldn’t fit in the elevator. 

It was a little different though, knowing he could bend a fork in half with one hand, that he could probably do the same with someone’s femur. As much as you loved Bucky, there were days where it was less than difficult to liken him to a caged tiger - it’s not that he’d ever hurt you, or he snarled low in his throat while sinking fangs into still-warm meat, red gushing out of his maw, but it was hard to forget that night. There were still days where the scene replayed in your head like you’d accidentally clicked rewind. One second you were going about your mundane life with him, but when you glanced up his eyes were red - and when they were red it made it feel like red was all you could see. Red seeping through the snow, red soaking the cop’s blue shirt, red slicking down Bucky’s neck. 

Those red eyes felt like a stranger’s sometimes, if you were careless enough to forget they peered out from under familiar dark brows. 

It was an awkward dance at first, going back to the brownstone, once Bucky and his mysterious connections had bleached the blood out of the hardwood, repainted the walls and fixed the lights. Emptied the fridge. Vacuumed. Hung a bit of mistletoe. 

There were many little instances that felt _off_. You’d had a successful first dinner back at home, picking up food from the taqueria two blocks over. You ate in companionable silence, but the cloying smell of freshly painted walls was a reminder of why things were different now. It was after dinner, you were washing up the plates, gently swaying to Bing Crosby when Bucky’d leaned across you to pull a glass from the sink, to place in the dishwasher. His hand was light on your hip, but it was when he smiled down at you with red eyes - _dead eyes, ones you didn’t recognize_ \- you flinched back, dropping the fork into the sink. Maybe it was just instinct, but he held you close, looking over his shoulder like whatever had spooked you was waiting behind him, like it wasn’t _possibly_ him that did that. This made you fight harder in his arms, just for a second. 

You didn’t feel quite alright until you’d put two or so yards in between yourself and those red eyes, til you remembered you’d just yanked yourself free of _Bucky’s_ grasp. His eyes were still red, but you could see the guilt swimming in those dark irises. 

His eyes were red when he was hungry, when he was emotional - happy, sad, angry, scared - and you could tell by the way he stared at you with his mouth slightly agape, like there were so many things he wanted to say, and that he couldn’t just flick his eyes back to their regular steely blue. He swallowed hard. Tucked his outstretched hand into his pocket. Waiting, you realized belatedly, for you to make the first move. 

“Shit,” you breathed at last, by way of apology. It took you four careful steps to be back in front of the sink, heart rabbiting in your throat. “Buck, you can’t just look down at me while we’re fucking doing the dishes of all things,” you let out a measured exhale, “an’ stare down at me with your red eyes and expect me not to freak out.” It wasn’t angry, the way the words slipped out of your mouth. Mildly accusatory if anything, and you raised a testy eyebrow at him, levelling the fork in his direction. Letting him know you weren’t really scared, even if you damn well felt like it.

He scratched the corner of his jaw, soothing a cold hand over his face. “I was gettin’ all in my feelings again,” he said by way of explanation. Bucky, you found, made it easy sometimes for those eyes to look endearingly lost. “Was happy we’re having dinner again, back here y’know.” His voice was soft.

You handed him the fork, stepping a little closer. He tucked it away in dish washer, eyes down.

“I didn’t mean it,” you said at last. You let your arm snake around his waist, invited yourself back into his space. “I didn’t mean to startle.” He huffed out an incredulous laugh at your words, eyes still red. “I just,” you began, “don’t expect it. ‘S hard, remembering you look like that sometimes when I’m used to your baby blues.” You tried for teasing, sardonic notes, you really did, but the sincerity caught in your throat. He only tucked his arms around you when you nudged his bicep, pressing yourself against the length of his chest. “Exposure therapy’s the only way to go, huh?” He chuckled weakly, his laughter warm against your forehead. 

Red eyes, dead eyes, they weren’t the same thing anymore. It took you a bit getting used to it, rolling over in the mussed sheets of the night before, to stare straight into Bucky’s red ones. As much as he hated the fear that quickened your heartbeat and thrummed in your veins at first, it eventually became a mild scare, then nothing at all. 

He’d pick you up from work, the last two weeks you had left before the holidays. He brought you cider or some hot beverage almost every time, flashing a crimson wink at you over his scarf, his nose pink from the chill. 

One night, twenty odd days since you’d returned to the brownstone, something in your heart burned with crackling warmth, like a hearth. You’d gotten home early that evening, and when you moved to set down your bags in the living room, Bucky was waiting oh so conveniently under the mistletoe, atrocious sweater and Santa hat to boot. Red eyes sparkled at you - he was so proud of himself, you could tell by the way his hands were shoved in his pockets - and he beamed at you in an open-mouthed grin. Red and white reminded you of lots of things these days. Red, the blood of dead men. White, the snow the blood stained as it fell in pearly clumps from the sky. Red and white side by side, too -like the Santa hat that was perched jauntily on Bucky’s dark hair, the one that goof insisted on pulling out of storage as soon as December came. 

Red, Bucky’s warm gaze, so similar to mulled wine and cranberries and cherries and anything edible because his gaze was candy sweet when it was just for you. White, little flashes of it, when he smiled his lopsided grin at you, the right side of his lip quirking up a little more than the left, revealing the overly-long cuspids that made him lisp, slurring all his s’s.

Red, the color of the ribbon that strung up the bundle of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. White, the little berries that dotted the waxy green leaves. You joined him under the mistletoe, staring up at the little plant. His chin tilted up too, following your gaze. He didn’t look down, when you laced your fingers with his cold ones, but you saw a flash of those teeth again, that slow grin. 

It was easy, familiar, and so reminiscent of home, to lean forwards and press a sweet kiss to his neck. He tilted his chin down carefully. “That all?” His voice was so gruff, so _Brooklyn_ , you had to laugh. 

“Ask nicely.” Your hands, still linked in his, pulled him down for another. You barely waited for his low rumble of a “please” to leave his lips before you cut him off. Your mouth against his, it made your heart sing. It was pattering away in your chest. By the way Bucky smiled into the kiss, you were sure he could tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm happy with how this ended. What about you? Leave a comment (pls) letting me know what you thought :)

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @hootyhoobuckaroo and say hi !!! requests are welcome


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